Muddy-colored rainwater flowed down the streets. It reminded Robbie of Bourbon being futilely poured down the drain by an alcoholic -- one who’s newest run at staying dry had been doomed to fail before it even got off the ground.

It was hot enough that if it weren’t so muggy, you’d think you’d kicked the can and Heaven had turned it’s back on you. Only tip-off you weren't dead was that It was a damp heat. That afternoon it had been so humid you could probably carry on a conversation with a fish a mile off the coast and it wouldn’t strike you as impossible. Right around sunset, the sky itself cracked open and sobbed onto the prodigal city -- probably wouldn’t let up all night. Salem was never coming home, though.

When Rob stepped up to his office, he’d notice the door was left slightly ajar. Hadn’t he locked the damn thing when he left? The lettering on the window beckoned him inside, pointing just a hair behind where it should.

When he stepped inside, the place was empty. No more than usual, at least. Nothing was missing. The smell of cigarette smoke on the air reached his nostrils. The light was off, barely still swingin’ on it’s chain from the ceiling, like it’d been clicked off a few minutes ago. The blinds were closed. The ratty rug on the floor didn’t show any footprints, not even wet ones from the rain outside. When he reached his desk, a small photograph of a street corner was lying on top of his piles of unpaid bills. On the back of the photo was scribbled the words See you there.

So. The Men in Black had come a-knockin,’ after all these months. Least it wasn’t the Boys in Blue, eh? Just like ‘em to leave out when it was that they wanted to meet. Not that Robbie couldn’t figure it out. He’d never heard anything come outta them that didn’t at least have a half-truth in it, or maybe a breadcrumb of some kind. After all, even a diseased hooker should have a pretty face if they wanted business, right?

If it weren't for the familiar aroma of stale cigarette smoke I might feel worried. I feel worried anyways, because whenever that smell turns up I'm about to experience serious business.

Tucking the picture inside my jacket pocket I give the bills the gimlet eye. That last case had paid, but it hadn't gotten rid of nearly as many of the darn things as I'd wished for. Seeing that big stack there reminded me why I'd come here.

Walking around my desk I yank out the bottom drawer and grab a fresh flask of whiskey from my stock. Freshly armed I go to meet my "client."

There's no getting around the rain, the water runs off the edge of my fedora like a drain spout as I stand there waiting at the corner. My bad leg aches in this weather, forcing me to lean heavily on my cane. If I turn my head down to try avoiding the rain being blasted into my face by the wind it will drip down the back of my coat, if I keep it up, well, it blasts in my face. Blast.

They play it like a game. They probably even call it the Waiting Game. It works like this, you get a schmuck, say a private detective, and then you tell this schmuck to go to a particular place but not bother saying when. Then the schmuck goes to the place and waits. The wait should be inconvenient and uncomfortable, that way when you show up the schmuck feels happy to see you and irritated at putting up with your smug face at the same time. The mixture of feelings makes the schmuck uncertain, edgy, about himself, about the situation. It makes the schmuck easier to read and then you grab him by the strings and make him dance to your stupid show tunes.

Hate it all he wants, he's stuck playing it -- life's tough. A gun might serve him better than a hard-hat, out here, though.

The rain kicks down on the rim of his hat and his suit as he shows up. It's only been a half hour or so. He seems a little surprised to see the 'psychic' standing there already. Robbie might have seen him coming if the weather hadn't made smelling smoke impossible. There's something about that singular brand; it distinguishes him from anything else the nose might pick up. Unusual for a Guardian to have a signiture so blatant, but then again, it makes you ask questions, doesn't it?

Well, if you're smart enough to, it does.

"Detective," he greets the man by his former title. One that he hasn't held in three or twenty years, depending on who you talk to. His eyes don't blink or squint in the rain, and his facial expression is a bored-but-observant one.

"Were you followed?"

He doesn't yet produce the envelope tucked under his arm, though he doesn't hide it. It's obviously for Robbie.

I don't have anything to call him by, so I just touch the brim of my fedora as way of greeting. In my head I call him the 'Smoking Man.' It's just a nickname for the persona he crafted for himself, not anything he would really respond to. We're similar in that, but only a little, a way to throw people off or lull them into security. Mine only fools Sleepers.

Granite, hard, unyielding and really good at playing poker. That's how my face goes when he walks up and calls me 'Detective' to my face. He can rub salt in the old wounds if he wants, but I'm not going to give him satisfaction by reacting to it.

Instead I shift my gaze just behind his head, at the wall of the movie theater on the other side of the street. There's posters on it advertising the different flicks. One catches my eye, a kiddie film with a cartoon ostrich as the main character. A black and white bird, its head buried in the sand. Good a sign as any, a little bitty omen trickling down to me from the fae realms on high or wherever.

"Nope." A part of me suspects I probably didn't even need to check. For people like us that kind of paranoid question ranks just the same as showing your library card so you can take out a book. By the look of the folder he had under one arm, that's almost exactly what I'm doing here.